


Dear William...

by terrormusical



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, The Academy Is...
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-12
Updated: 2011-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-24 13:45:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terrormusical/pseuds/terrormusical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabe writes William a love letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear William...

**Author's Note:**

> So I know this is like, _super_ fluffy but it was 100% self-indulgent. I don't even remember how I came up with the idea. I just remember giggling like an idiot.
> 
> Enjoy...? (:

_Dear William,_  
 _  
I plan on dropping this in your bunk and getting the fuck of the bus before anyone realizes I was even there. Not that I'm ashamed, or anything. I'm not at all. I don't even know what shame is. I just don't want Mike to think I stealing his Jack Daniels again. Which, by the time you're reading this, I probably have anyway. I mean, might as well while I'm there, right?  
   
You're on stage right now and I'm in my own bunk scribbling this as fast as I can, so I'm sorry if it's hard to read. Have you ever even seen my handwriting? Who even writes letters anymore? Oh yeah, me, because I'm a total romantic loser. Anyway, my giant head keeps blocking the light from the ceiling of this coffin-sized excuse for a sleeping area, and actually, it's dim enough as it is, so I should probably go out into the lounge and write by a window, maybe utilize that thing called daylight. But I'm not going to, because who knows who might walk in and catch me writing frantically. Then, whoever it is is probably going to want to read this. They can, eventually. It's just that...I want you to read it first.  
   
I'll get to the point eventually, just allow me some more mental prep time. And don't you dare skip ahead, Beckett. Also, I solemnly swear this is NOT a joke from one of our asshole bandmates. Actually, the fact that I just said that is probably making this ten times more suspicious but I promise you, it's Gabe writing.  
   
So, right now, I can't tell exactly what song you're playing, but it sounds really good, as always, and the crowd is flipping the fuck out. And god, your voice is music to my ears. Wait. That doesn't really work, does it? Because...yeah, it is music. Um, never mind. If I had a pencil I'd erase all of that. Unfortunately, this gay purple ink pen was the only thing readily available. I may or may not have gone through Vicky's bag to find it.  
   
But in all honestly, you sound perfect. Not you, as in the band. You, as in, you, William Beckett. I am not ashamed to admit that sometimes I'll listen to you guys just to hear you sing, and I might have your complete discography on my iPod. Okay, I'm kind of embarrassed to admit that. There's just something about your singing voice that differs from your normal voice, but it's still so completely you. I guess for that reason I have an advantage over the fans. I get to hear you sing and talk just about equally. I get to see all the sides of you. I think, and correct me if I'm wrong, that I just may know you better than anyone else, including yourself.  
   
I can't hear you crystal clear but I'm pretty sure you said something about 'a few more songs' which means you're going to be back here in fifteen minutes, tops, and I have to hurry up and conclude this which is unfortunate considering that if I said absolutely everything I wanted to say, I would need at least several more hours and another notebook.  
   
This is probably a bad time, what with all the gayness going on recently within the label. Pete and Patrick have finally gotten together, jesus christ, I never thought I'd see the day. Ryan and Brendon, they're pretty cute, I have to admit. That one's been in the works forever, so I'm really not surprised. I'm sorry if this seems cliché, but trust me when I say that this has been on my mind for a very, very long time. I'm only just now brave (kind of) enough to admit it to you, even though this is most cowardly way to do it. Actually, I understand if you think I'm completely lame now. You can punch me for this later. I think I'd be willing to take a punch from you every day for the rest of my life if it meant you'd finally be mine. Exclusively. Scary word, isn't it? Don't dwell on it too much. I know commitment freaks you out, and it intimidates me, too. But I always told myself that if I found the right person, I wouldn't need other people on the side.  
   
I'm not sure how you're reacting right now. I thought I might have some idea of what the expression on your face must look like at this point, but the scary thing is, I can't even take a guess. It's a shot in the dark. I'm kind of throwing this to you, hoping you'll catch it. Or drop it. Or catch it like it's a hot potato and set it down for a little while, pace, stare at it, wait for it to cool down, then slowly approach it again. You know. Something like that.  
   
There's really nobody else I'd rather be with. Everyone else automatically seems kind of insignificant when they stand next to you. I've kissed more girls than I'd like to admit, but the only kiss that I remember in full sensory detail is that one time I kissed you when we were both maybe a little drunk, outside some venue in the cold. I looked over at you and you looked so perfect and happy, and alcohol tends to lower your inhibitions, so I followed my instinct and kissed you. I'm not sure if you remember it as clearly as I do, or remember it at all, but you kissed me back. It wasn't crazy or anything. It hardly lasted a few seconds. But that's what I've been clinging to all this time, the memory of the way your lips moved to fit so perfectly against mine. I've kind of been hoping that maybe, it'll happen again someday. And hopefully, we'll both be sober. And there will be proper, in-focus pictures of it all over the internet.  
   
I want every single part of you. Take that any way you'd like. Before I met you, I never though I could feel this way about a guy. Hell, I never thought I could feel so strongly for anyone. It's scary, it's consuming, and I am well aware this could ruin our friendship forever, but I'm taking that risk because for all we know, things might become so much more amazing than either of us could have imagined. That is, if you feel the same way. I want to be able to hold your hand everywhere we go, and take you on dates, and have sleepovers and light candles and completely ravish you, and wow. This took a sharp turn straight toward extremely gay. But the saddest part is that it's all completely true. When people ask me who I'm on the phone with all the time (let's be honest, we call each other way too often) I want to be able to say 'my boyfriend' and then smile when everyone goes 'awwww'. This is the kind of stuff I think about more often than I should.  
   
So, for now, let's just say that love is a swimming pool. An outdoor one, so even though it's fun it's still kind of scary and dirty and there are bugs and shit in it. Let's say I've already fallen, but you're still kind of standing by the edge, looking at the water like there are sea monsters in it, and part of you wants to join me but part of you is afraid it's freezing cold. In my opinion, you should jump in, too. I'll even catch you, if you want me too.  
   
Yours,  
Gabriel  
 _  
xxxxxxxx  
   
   
I snatch the letter up, not even bothering to read it over. If I do, I'll probably find misspellings, grammatical errors, thing I'll regret writing but obviously can't erase, and probably close to a hundred reasons to shred it, throw away the pieces, and forget that this crazy, stupid idea ever popped into my head one fateful day.  
   
I don't do any of that. I fold it unceremoniously, crooked corners and edges protruding every which way, closing it into a tight fist which is then pushed straight down into the front pocket of my hoodie. I hear some threads tear, which on any other occasion would have probably sounded like a vuvuzuela inches from my ear. Right now, I can care less, plus my ears are ringing too loudly for me to hear anything else.  
   
On my way across the lot to the Academy's bus, I pass Ryan and Brendon who are looking happy as clams which is unusual for the former, who rarely smiles at all, actually. I'm surprised and a little jealous of the couple when Ryan leans in to press a kiss to Brendon's lips, the younger boy immediately gripping the back of his neck to pull him closer. I pretend not to notice, but it's really damn hard when they're pressed up against their bus in plain sight. It's mesmerizing, the way Brendon makes Ryan go from the quiet, angsty guy he is to a lovesick teenager with just one smile. I'm happy for them, really, I am. It's just that it might be nice to have that effect on someone. By someone, I mean Bill.  
   
I have absolutely no clue as to where my band could be. If I had to guess, I would say that they're watching the Academy guys finish up, probably waiting backstage for them. It's that awkward transitional time of day when it's getting dark, but you can still see. Everything looks blue and hazy, but it could be the nerves.  
   
It's not until after I'm back in my own bunk, panting from running and hiding, that I begin revisiting some things I wrote, thinking back on certain parts of the letter. Half of me is extremely, extremely remorseful. The other half of me doesn't care because after all, it was raw emotion. I didn't stop to think, didn't go back to edit. That letter—that letter was exactly what I've been wanting to say but couldn't find the courage until now. I close my eyes, wait for the sound of the creaky bus door.  
   
I hear Nate first, followed closely by Alex. Ryland and Vicky are a little further behind them. “Gabe?” I hear Vicky call down the narrow hallway that separates the walls of bunks. I move the curtain aside to peer out at her. “Hey.” I tried not to let my nerves show, but you could totally tell I was still struggling to catch my breath.  
   
She eyes me warily, taking in the sweat on my forehead, my deep, slightly troubled breathing, and says, “Oh my god, have you really been jacking off in here instead of watching the boys?”  
   
Jesus. Well, what was I supposed to say to that?  _No, I was actually composing a love letter for one of them._  
   
“Guilty,” I joked, and she looks unsure for a moment, like she doesn't know whether or not to believe me. She eventually grins, laughs a bit, relaxes her shoulders.  
   
“You're so fucking weird,” is the last thing she says as she turns around to face the guys again, grabbing the lit cigarette Ryland offered to her. I watch dejectedly as the smoke twirls up freely, dispersing as it hits the ceiling. No windows are open. It has nowhere else to go.  
   
Pressing myself against the back wall of my cozy, overheated bunk once more, I do the one thing I really should do much, much less of: think.  
   
Right now, William is probably stumbling back toward the bunks, his gorgeous face flushed and red from jumping around stage under all those big, bright lights. He probably feels pretty bad about rejecting all the fans that had been calling his name as he rushed back to the bus, desperate to get to the singular shower stall first. He always tells me he feels terrible from the moment he steps off stage until the moment the ice cold water hits him, and I have to agree.  
   
He's probably showering now, leaning against the wall, still as a statue, just letting the water cool him off. Whenever he's done, who knows how long that might take, he's going to stumble back to his bunk, his smooth, pale skin still damp and cold, hair dripping down his back, and he's going to find a messily folded letter on his pillow, 'Dear William' scribbled on the front. He'll immediately know who it's from—best friend intuition. He'll open it slowly, look all around to make sure nobody else is watching. Then, he'll read it. That's where my prediction comes to a drop off, an abrupt stop in the scene, and all that's beyond it is a big, blank, white void.  
   
   
xxxxxxxx  
   
   
I get a knock on the outside of my bunk god knows how many hours into my sulking. My first though is fuck, it's William, and I look like absolute shit. I throw the curtain aside anyway to reveal an all-too-happy looking Nate. “C'mon dude, we're going out for drinks.”  
   
The thought of alcohol is enough to make me feel nauseated. I didn't even steal any of Mike's whiskey on the way off the bus. I had way too much on my mind to be worried about my own personal liquor supply. “No,” I say flatly, doing my best to show that I'm completely uninterested and next to nothing can be done to convince me otherwise. It must work, because he mumbles a quick  _whatever_ and disappears.  
   
I blindly reach around for my iPod, shoving my earphones with more force than needed once I find it, and press the shuffle button. About A Girl comes on and I laugh dully at the irony, not even bothering to change it, letting William sing to me as I close my eyes and drift off.  
   
xxxxxxxx  
   
   
The first thing that comes to mind when I slowly wake up and stare, eyes narrow, into the sudden blinding light of my iPod is, oh shit. The numbers read 3:29 a.m., and I'm immediately reminded of this old ghost story I heard as a kid that said if you woke up randomly during the three o'clock hour, it mean a ghost was in the room with you. I scoff. The only ghost in the room with me in the ghost of the person I was that very morning, the cheerful, loud one, the ghost that convinces me to slip out of my bunk and tiptoe out of the bus for some fresh air.  
   
The creaking of the door seems louder than it usually does on behalf of the dead silence that existed before it. I curse under my breath, ambling clumsily down the few steep steps until my feet hit the pavement with a dull thud. I almost scream when I look up and William is standing there, feet away from me, flashing me that little grin that he wears so well. He must have been out here too and heard me coming, the fucker.  
   
“What the—”  
   
He shushes me, one long, white finger pressed against my lips, and his smile widens until his lips curl over his teeth. It makes the edges of my vision blurrier than they already are. It makes me a little dizzier, makes my head feel a little heavier.  
   
He hold up a note with his free hand, and it's folded neatly, of course. It reads “Dear Gabe” in his perfect, girly handwriting. I snatch it from him, narrowing my eyes, and he chuckles.  
   
The crackling of the paper as I unfold it is unsettlingly loud and I start thinking again, about irrational, useless things that shouldn't matter but do, such as whose pen he used, where he got the paper, where he wrote it, what he was thinking while he scribbled my name on the front. All the while, he watches me intently.  
   
It's finally opened all the way, folds pulled apart, and the orangey glow from the kind-of-faraway streetlight is just barely enough to make out the words.  
   
 _Dear Gabe,_  
   
 _1._ _You're not a coward. You're amazing._  
 _2._ _It's endearing that you have all our music, as long as you didn't download it illegally._  
 _3._ _I remember it perfectly. I wasn't as drunk as you may think._  
 _4._ _Nice pool analogy. I dove into the deep end a long time ago, you probably just didn't see me there._  
 _5._ _Now kiss me._  
   
 _Love, Bill._  
   
With every word that makes it from my eyes to my brain to my heart I think I smile a little wider. Needless to say, I probably look like a total idiot. The blood in my head is swirling around like a whirlpool, or at least that's what it sounds like as I lean in to kiss him, our first real kiss. It's too much, way too fucking much, and out of the corner of my eye I see his note flutter to the ground as our lips meet, this climactic moment I've been waiting for forever. His hands are on my shoulders, and we're nearly the same height so it's effortless. His hair slips easily between my fingers as he tilts his head to deepen it, not too much but just enough. The worlds 'he feels the same way' are running across my mind, the only thing I'm capable of thinking, like a flashing marquee. I sigh against his lips as we separate for a breath.  
   
“Just,” I sputter, choking on my own words. My voice is somehow lost in the the small space between us as his eyes stare straight into mine. “Just stay with me.”  
   
“Yeah,” he nods, agreeable for once, and I grab his hand and lead him back to my bunk.  
   
xxxxxxxx  
   
   
Waking up with an armful of William Beckett, I decide without question, is the best way to wake up.  
   
One of his legs is hooked over my hip, loose fists against my chest, and I can feel his even breath against my collarbone. I move my arms, lightly shaking them awake to find that they're wound snugly around his tiny waist. It doesn't look like I'd be able to move even if I wanted to, which, for the record, I do not.  
   
He takes me by surprise when he speaks up, lips moving against the thin skin of my neck. I get goosebumps everywhere, shivering all over from the light, teasing sensation. “You're awake,” he says plainly, slowly untangling himself from me, yawning and smiling. I return every grin, watching him wake up, which is something I've seen but never this genuinely, never this...meaningfully. I bring one of his delicate hands to my lips, kissing his knuckles until he hums happily and curls his free fingers around my bicep. One his legs slips between mine once more, and we slowly melt together again until everything becomes slow and heavy, and we both fall back into a light sleep.  
   
xxxxxxxx  
   
   
Later that night when our buses are finally on the road again, William texts me.  _You should have ridden with us,_ he says, and I can practically see him curled up on himself, sitting with Ryan on the couch in the bus lounge while the guys play Mario Kart with Brendon. At least, that's what I imagine is happening—I most definitely saw those two jump on their bus last minute after sprinting across the lot hand-in-hand. I was considering joining them until I hear the roar of the bus engine, and thought, oh well.  
   
I glance out the window, watching the dull, gray landscape fly past us.  _Sorry baby, I wish I was there too. Oh my god, we're not gonna be one of THOSE couples are we?_ I delete and retype 'baby' about seven times until I finally just send it.  
   
I wait for a reply, staring at the blackened screen of my phone until it lights up with a notification that says 'incoming call: william<3'  
   
That fag totally added the heart while I was sleeping, I decide, because I never put it there. I smile, shake my head and answer. “Hey.”  
   
“'Baby', I like it,” he giggles, actually giggles, and okay. This side of William I have absolutely never seen. I can just picture him blushing furiously, smiling, content in his own little world.  
   
“I like  _you_ ,” I say casually, shrugging even though he can't see, and that small statement seems to attract the attention of my bandmates. I glance up to meet the curious stares of Nate, Alex, Vicky and Ryland.  
   
“Who are you talking to?” Vicky inquires, and William seems to have heard her.  
   
“Tell her,” he encourages, and I remember my letter, smiling.  
   
“My boyfriend,” I finally say, bridging the dramatic pause, and it takes them a minute to understand but then, it seems, they finally do, and I get exactly what I want: a loud chorus of 'aww's and surprised-but-not-actually-surprised-at-all smiles.  
   
William laughs on the other line, crackly and broken up by the static, but it's the most wonderful sound I've ever heard.


End file.
